


if you should fall to pieces

by everybreatheverymove



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Doesn't change the rest of the season all that much, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Like it could all play out the same and it would make sense, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21538555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybreatheverymove/pseuds/everybreatheverymove
Summary: It hasn’t even been three days, but suddenly she misses the feel of his hair running through her fingers, threading and curling around her hands as she pulls him closer, the soft press of his lips flush against her own. It hasn’t even been three days, but she misses him.She watches as his eyes lower to her neck, to the reddening bruise that wraps around her throat; it’s ugly and unflattering, a reminder of what can happen when her strength is matched. But she’s been waiting for it, waiting for him to see it and see her.(He hates it.) (She wants him to tell her she’s beautiful anyway.)“I am sorry, you know,” he says, “about the other day.”aka,"Mike is the one comforting El in the bathroom after the sauna test"
Relationships: Eleven | Jane Hopper/Mike Wheeler
Comments: 7
Kudos: 171





	if you should fall to pieces

“She wants to be alone.”

The door to the small bathroom is open, only slightly, and Max’s hand is still twisting the doorknob. She curves her wrist to the side, pulling the door close enough for El to have some privacy but not enough to shut her in.

Last night had been a lot more eventful than any of them could have predicted — no amount of planning or foreseeing could have prepared them for what would happen. They hadn’t planned for Billy to break free and overpower them, overpower El. They hadn’t expected him to wrap his hands around her throat and choke her to the point of exhaustion, to weaken the strongest of them with just his hands and nothing but. They hadn’t prepared makeshift weapons in advance this time, hadn’t come up with a backup plan in case the first one failed; and it should have worked, should have been enough. But it wasn’t.

Instead, El had almost died at the hands of a monster-made madman, Mike foolishly threw himself into the line of fire for her, and by some miracle they all escaped by the skin of their teeth because the very idea of someone or something hurting Mike seemed to be too much for the girl to bear, too much to keep her down for good.

Max sighs, blue eyes lingering on the wooden door for just a moment longer. Then she starts towards the boys, heading straight for Lucas as she fingers the strap of her watch. He’s sat on the couch with a handful of Frosted Flakes and a mouthful too, noisily munching the cereal. Will is in an old recliner by the door leading outside. The worn blue leather seat creaks every time he moves around, eyes downcast as if he’s lost in thought.

Mike is… Truthfully, she can’t decide if he’s calm or if he’s been pacing around all morning and is finally worn out.

“How is she?” It’s Lucas that asks, and out of the corner of his eye, Mike notices Will perk up at the question, hair falling into his face as he lifts his head in concern.

"I mean," Max starts, and she shoulders a shrug then— as though it’s obvious, as though it’s not a big deal. “Same as last night.” She tells the boy on the couch, ignoring Mike's eyes burning holes into the back of her tee. Max sighs, adding, “her neck is bruised as hell but,”

A few steps away from her, she can hear Mike muttering something beneath his breath now. He's haking his head as though her answer isn’t good enough. And then he’s walking away from the group and towards the small restroom in the corner of the basement, his basement.

“ _What_ is he doing?” Max whips around, arms folded over her chest with a finger outstretched, pointing, as she watches Mike stalk toward the bathroom in long strides. The redhead frowns, eyebrows furrowing in disdain, “El said-”

“Max,” is all Lucas says, an almost-warning look in his eye.

Somehow, it’s enough, and she understands then that maybe some things just go unspoken. Mike and El’s relationship is one of them, apparently.

Across the room, Mike has his hand pressed against the door — it’s surprisingly cool despite the temperature outside and the static humidity that’s been sweltering around the Wheeler home for days on end.

It leaves him breathless; lungs stuffed full of warm air and some strange sense of hope that maybe if he pushes the door open and slips inside, he’ll find whatever he needs to calm his nerves and put his mind to rest. A hope that if she reassures him, talks to him, then maybe he stands a chance at being alright. Or at least pretending to be.

(It's completely selfish but he can't help it.)

Mike reaches for the doorknob before he can stop himself, and he’s entering the bathroom and closing it the door shut behind him. It closes quietly, the sound of a metal latch clicking echoing throughout the small room as he lets go of the knob and locks himself in the room with her.

(The harsh reality of just how far they've come since the moment they met hits him then; shallow breath stuck in his throat as though kept down by a weight. It's suffocating, really, to realize how different they are now than they were back then. Back when privacy was still foreign to her and she didn't trust tight spaces. Back when all Mike had to give her was space and reassurance, when all he could provide was the simple comfort of knowing that she would never have to be enclosed in a small room again.

He didn't understand it then, not at first, but he's made efforts to understand everything about her ever since. Only now, all he wants is to cross her boundaries and invade her space, to take two steps closer and fill whatever pockets of air might linger between them. All he wants is for her to let him in; to go back to that one small moment in time where she didn't quite understand why the door needed to be _almost_ closed, why she needed to keep him out. Now, all he wants is to see her, or feel her — just so he has the knowledge that she's fine, that she's okay despite everything that happened and despite where they stand.

And the only way he can think of doing that is by closing the door and breaking the first rule he ever taught her: to not let anyone in.)

(It's completely selfish but he doesn't care.)

El is stood by the sink, one hand gripping the porcelain bowl and the other fisting a ball of used, red-soaked tissue. She doesn’t turn to face him, doesn’t say anything. She only looks in the mirror, her blemished reflection staring right back at him.

With a sigh, Mike presses up against the door, unmoving and quiet — as though some unseen force is keeping him there; like she’s holding him in place without so much as even batting an eye or lifting a finger. He keeps still, holds her gaze in the mirror as he asks, “Are you okay?”

His voice isn’t broken, but it’s deeper than last night, and El thinks this might be the first time he’s addressed her directly (about something other than 'the plan’) all day. When they’d returned home late last night, he’d simply ushered everyone inside and offered them all sleeping bags and an array of pillows. Lucas handed Max two sleeping bags, El avoided everyone’s eye, and the girls had drifted off to sleep in front of the television set before anyone could stop them.

“Yes,” El finally says, breaking her silence with a soft voice. She lowers her gaze down to the sink, raising the clump of bloody tissue to her face, her fingers tightening around the thin paper as she gently dabs at her top lip.

He watches her, allowing himself a moment to simply take her in, but then it's like something in him snaps. Because Mike pushes up against the door, hands falling limp by his sides, and he squeezes past her to reach the other side of the sink, carefully avoiding touching her — he’s tempted to offer an apology when his thigh grazes her hip, bumping her side as he rounds her. His need to touch her is almost overwhelming, and he wishes he'd done it by accident.

Mike flicks open the toilet seat lid with a loud thump and reaches up to peer inside the small cabinet hanging above before he pulls a small, folded washcloth from the top shelf with a lick of his lips as he turns back around to get a look at her.

El is still pressing the soaked tissue to her face, eyes glazing over as she zeroes in on her nose, brushing the cloth along her Cupid’s bow. There's a patchy trickle of blood dried there; pink from the night before that hasn't been rinsed properly and crimson red from twenty minutes ago. Slowly, with his nostrils flaring and his throat tight, Mike holds an empty hand out. El raises an eyebrow in curiosity, and her eyes drift up to his face. He purses his lips, and his eyes are focused solely on her mouth, brows pinched together as if in concentration.

She drops the tissues into his hand, right corner of her mouth hitching up into a faint smile when he blinks down at the mess and proceeds to toss them into the toilet. He doesn’t flush it though, only whips around to take a step closer to her. Mike stretches across her to turn on the cold tap, and he holds the washcloth under the water flow for a few seconds; just long enough to dampen the cloth but not to soak it.

“Can I?” He clears his throat, and the rest of his question goes unspoken when El nods, giving him permission to take another step forward and crowd her space. He stops just short of a foot away from her, lifting his eyes to meet her own as he softly presses the cold towel to her cheek. “Is that okay? Or is it too cold?” Mike asks, watching as her eyes close, scrunch. “I can-”

“It’s fine,” El tells him. She shuffles forward ever so slightly, making it easier for him to help rinse her face of any leftover blood. When Mike runs the cloth along her top lip, two fingers stretched out to press the cotton to her skin, El dares a look up at him, cheeks flushing as a tickle starts over her lips. “Are _you_ okay?”

Mike stills, and he drops his hand mid-air. “Me?” His eyebrows dart up to his hairline then, eyes blown wide and lips parted in surprise, “Yeah, I’m- I’m fine.” He tells her, softly, and then he goes back to delicately trailing the washcloth over her face, rubbing gentle circles into her skin. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

When El simply stares at him, button nose wrinkling in confusion, he continues with a sigh, “for not reacting sooner.” Mike takes a breath, Adam’s apple bobbing thickly. The sound of Mike’s dry throat forcing down a gulp of air doesn’t do much to clear the small room of any tension. “I should’ve... I don’t know, just _moved_ quicker.” He says, voice dipping at the end as he closes his eyes with a shaky sigh, “ We didn't- I just-”

“Mike,” El tilts her head to the side then, and she reaches up to lay her hand over his, fingertips pressed to the spaces between his knuckles, pale skin pinking. “It’s fine.” She attempts a smile, though it goes unnoticed, “ _I’m_ fine.”

Whether Mike believes her or not, she isn’t sure. But he seems to _accept_ it because he reaches up to cup the other side of her face in his left hand and inch closer — not enough to kiss her, but just close enough for her to smell the citrus smell of his shampoo.

(It hasn’t even been three days, but suddenly she misses the feel of his hair running through her fingers, threading and curling around her hands as she pulls him closer, the soft press of his lips flush against her own. It hasn’t even been three days, but she misses him.)

(There had been an unmistakable softness in his embrace last night; lean arms wrapped around her body as he cradled her against his chest, letting the warmth of his body spread through her. He’d fallen with her, _for_ her, let her hold onto him for dear life.)

(He didn’t mind it when she collapsed into him, when he’d burdened himself with the weight of her emotions and borne her every feeling. He didn’t mind it when she sobbed wet, hot tears, blood pouring down her face and her nose running. He didn’t mind it when she grabbed him, reaching for his face and pawing at his arms and legs for support, as if trying to find some part of him that would assure her he was safe. He didn’t mind it when she found refuge there; tucked safely away in the comfort of his welcome arms.)

She watches as his eyes lower to her neck, to the reddening bruise that wraps around her throat; it’s ugly and unflattering, a reminder of what can happen when her strength is matched. But she’s been waiting for it, waiting for him to see it and see _her_.

(He hates it.)

(She wants him to tell her she’s beautiful anyway.)

“I am sorry, you know,” he says, a dejected look on his face now. “About the other day.”

El doesn’t say anything, can tell he’s getting lost in his thoughts. She lets him; keep talking, keep staring at her neck — free hand gently sliding down the column of her throat to finger the bruise. It doesn’t hurt when he touches it, doesn’t do anything but send shivers running down her spine.

“I never should’ve lied to you. About anything.” The boy thumbs the underside of her chin, tilting her head back slightly to inspect the mark. “It was stupid.”

El grabs him by the wrist to pull his hand away then, lowering her head until she’s looking up at him through her lashes. “It was.”

“Exactly.” He says, and a grin threatens to take over his face, for whatever reason — because she’s seen the logic in his reasoning or because she seems to be on the brink forgiving him, he doesn’t now. But he continues nonetheless, adding, “I should’ve apologized at the mall the other day,“ he says, shoulders moving as adds, “I know that, and I’m sorry. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Mike frowns, “What?” he blinks, “You… you can’t forgive me that easily.” He reasons, flinching back all of a sudden as though she’s just scolded him. “I mean-”

“You saved me, Mike,” El reminds him, one brow raised sharply. “So… Yes. Okay.”

“Well, yeah.” His brows furrow and he drops their hand back down, eyes watching them sway. “Obviously.” The corners of his mouth turn up then, forming a boyish grin, “You know, I meant what I said. Yesterday?” El gapes up at him, urging Mike to carry on. “About you… About you meaning everything to me.”

El beams at that, and she bites against the inside of her cheek to stop herself from giggling, from full-on crashing into him with open arms. “Oh,” she breathes out, chest heavy as she swallows. “That’s… a lot.” The girl says, almost plainly.

Mike smiles, lips stretching wide as a matching grin takes over her face.

(Whether all is forgiven or not, it hardly matters when she looks at him like _that_ ; like she could burn his whole world down to embers with nothing but a smile and he would let her. He’d hand her the matches.)

El closes her eyes in content as Mike reaches for her face again, pinched fingers holding the washcloth in place as he dabs it along the base of her nose.

(It reminds her of a simpler time. When they were twelve and slightly younger and nothing more than two strangers who happened to meet under a particularly odd set of circumstances. When he offered her shelter from the rain and opened up his heart, and she could do little else but offer him the same in return. When he protected her, and she saved him, and they spent a moment together not unlike this one.)

“Mike?” He hums in response, continues wiping the top of her lips with gentle fingers and soft flicks of his wrist, eyes darkening as she adds,

“I’m happy I’m home.”


End file.
